


Broken smile

by Tovarich



Series: Good Omens Celebration 2020 [18]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Good Omens Celebration 2020, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, M/M, Psychological Torture, Recovery, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tovarich/pseuds/Tovarich
Summary: It was his third time in the Room. It probably wouldn't be the last. He didn't know how long he had to stay, they never say how long the punishment will last. It was part of it: the uncertainty, the constantly smothered hope of being let out, the anguish of never being released. From what Crowley told him, Hell preferred corporal punishment, physical pain, blood flowing, flesh being torn apart, bones broken. Heaven found that dirty. Up there, the preferred toying with your mind, breaking your will, pushing you right to the edge of madness before bringing you back, desperate enough that you'll do anything not to be punished again.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Celebration 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727137
Comments: 8
Kudos: 96
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	Broken smile

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for day 18 of the Good Omens celebration was "wayward".   
> I hope you enjoy reading this. Please tell me if there are any mistakes or weird sentences.

There was no place for wayward angels in Heaven and there was no place for them on Earth. Wayward angels were punished, and when these reprimands didn't work, they fell in boiling pits of sulphur, wings darkened by soot. They lost everything pure and holy and became creatures of vice and sin, corrupted monsters, ugly, hateful. That was what Aziraphale had been told his whole life. But it wasn't enough to make a good angel out of him. He knew what Heaven's harsh punishment was for those who didn't abide by the rules, and it didn't keep him from sinning, indulging in earthly pleasures. It didn't keep him from falling in love either.

Crowley had once said his side didn't send rude notes; heaven's rude notes were only warnings. But of course, Aziraphale wouldn't let Crowley know that Heaven's punishments could be extremely harsh. He didn't want Crowley to worry about him or do anything stupid or reckless to protect him. It wasn't the first time Aziraphale got punished; he certainly wasn't the most obedient angel. Aziraphale got used to those punishments, he told himself. And it was his fault if he had to endure it in the first place; he had no self-control, he was too self-indulgent. Unable to resist earthly pleasures of all kinds, not willing to keep his distance from Crowley to protect both of them from their bosses' wrath. He had deserved it, and now he had to face the consequences of his actions.

It was his third time in the Room. It probably wouldn't be the last. He didn't know how long he had to stay, they never say how long the punishment will last. It was part of it: the uncertainty, the constantly smothered hope of being let out, the anguish of never being released. From what Crowley told him, Hell preferred corporal punishment, physical pain, blood flowing, flesh being torn apart, bones broken. Heaven found that dirty. Up there, the preferred toying with your mind, breaking your will, pushing you right to the edge of madness before bringing you back, desperate enough that you'll do anything not to be punished again.

But it was Aziraphale's third time in the Room and he still hadn't learned his lesson. Perhaps he never would. The naked light of neon lamps was reflected by the sleek white walls, blinding him, even through his eyelids. His head was pounding, silence ringing in his ears. Nothing to touch, nothing to see, nothing to distract his mind. There wasn't the almost imperceptible ticking of a clock to mark the passing of seconds, nothing to tell the time. Nothing ever changed in the Room. The first time he had been there, he had tried to scratch at his skin, leave marks to count the days, but his skin had instantly healed. The pain was a slight relief though. It was a sensation at least. It never lasted. He had tried talking to himself, desperate to hear something, anything, even his own voice. It never reached his ears, soundwaves lost forever in the infinite white cage he was trapped in. Even in his own head, he could hear nothing but statics, keeping him from following any train of thoughts.

The Room existed solely to trick its occupants' minds: it looked both small and endless, like fractals, like a small room covered with mirrors, reflecting the same space indefinitely. The concept of space was blurry, it lost its physical sense. The concept of time too. How does time exist, if there's no way to tell its passing, if there's no change. Even the concept of self began to fade after some time. All of Aziraphale's senses were muted, physical sensations were almost inexistent in that immaculate space. He hadn't heard thing since he entered this place, even the voice in his head sounded foreign. The only feeling on his skin was the fleeting sensation of his own fingers or nails, stroking or scratching. It never lingered. Sometimes Aziraphale even doubted he had even felt something. White was all his eyes could see, no mattered if they were open or closed. Emotions became an abstract concept. That was the whole purpose of the Room after all: making you a blank canvas, ready to be straightened out.

But Aziraphale didn't give up. He tried to remember. Remember why he had been sent here in the first place, what he had done to deserve this punishment.

"Crowley. Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. Don't forget Crowley. Red hair, snake eyes. What did his voice sound like? How did his smile look? What did he look like when he laughed. Don't forget. Crowley."

Aziraphale kept muttering the words. He never heard them, but the comforted him, made him stronger. Strong enough to endure this, time after time, without loosing his mind. Because Aziraphale wasn't like the other angels who had been sent there. He wasn't trapped in Heaven, with no other horizon around him. Aziraphale had something, someone, to come back to. Aziraphale had reasons to fight. He had reasons to hope. How long had it been? For how many hours, years, centuries had he been locked up in that painfully bright, white room? It didn't matter. It didn't matter because Crowley was waiting for him.

Crowley had always waited for him, even when it looked like he wouldn't. He had never given Aziraphale up, even when the angel would have deserved it. He had always fought for Aziraphale, sometimes fighting with him in the process. Aziraphale could fight for Crowley in return. He would. He had sworn that the very first time he had been condemned to the Room. He wouldn't break his promise. never.

He didn't.

He returned to Earth, to his bookshop. To Crowley.

Except, this time was different. Aziraphale had never stayed more than a few months in the Room. It had always been easy to find excuses for his absence, to say he had to report to Heaven or something like that. It had always been rather easy to pretend everything was alright, to plaster a fake smile on his face and fall back into his well-established routines. This time was different.

Crowley was sitting on the sofa in the backroom, dark sunglasses covering his eyes. It had been a long time since Aziraphale had seen Crowley look so tense, features closed off. When he heard Aziraphale's footsteps approaching, Crowley's head snapped up. In a heartbeat he was on his feet and had Aziraphale in his arms.

"Angel…" he whispered, "where have you been? I was so worried. Thought you died." His voice cracked on the last word and Crowley buried his face in the angel's soft blond curls.

"I just had to go to Heaven for a bit." Aziraphale winced. His own voice sounded so distant in his head, devoid of emotions.

Crowley took a step back staring at Aziraphale's face. Even with his sunglasses on, the disbelief and concern was clear on his face. Aziraphale already missed the reassuring feeling of Crowley's body against his.

"What took you so long? You never stay that long up there." Crowley asked. "What's wrong, Aziraphale?"

"My dear, excuse me but, how long has it been?"

"Ten years, angel. It's been ten fucking years since you left. I was starting to think I'd never see you again."

"Ten years," Aziraphale repeated, looking dazed, eyes glazed over. "Ten years." He laughed mirthlessly. It had been ten years. He had been there for ten years.

Ten years was nothing in the face of eternity. He was an angel, ten years was nothing to him. Surely, he would quickly recover, now that he was safe in his bookshop with Crowley. He was an angel. He wasn't a human. He would be alright. Aziraphale wished he could believe those words, but he had seen how other angels looked like after staying that long in the Room. They were never okay. The hunted look in their eyes never left, as if a part of them had died.

Crowley took off his sunglasses before tenderly cupping Aziraphale's cheeks. "Angel, please, tell me what happened. what's wrong?"

Aziraphale hated seeing Crowley so distressed. He had never wanted Crowley to be worried about him. "Nothing, dear boy. Nothing's wrong." He tried to smile but it was forced and hurt the muscles of his jaw.

Crowley closed his eyes. He looked so sad, it broke Aziraphale's heart. "Aziraphale, don't lie to me. Talk to me please. You don't have to pretend, I know you, I know something's not right." He pressed his forehead to Aziraphale's. "What did they do to you?"

Aziraphale wasn't sure exactly what caused him to break, but he did. Suddenly, he crumbled, tears streaming down his cheeks. All the walls he had built over the centuries broke, breaches opened in the fortified dams keeping his emotions firmly in place. It all came flooding out of him, a stream of sobs and broken words. He told everything to Crowley. All the things he had promised he would never say. His lips wouldn't stay sealed anymore, there was too much pressure. He felt like he would explode if he didn't speak. Aziraphale had thought he would be alright, but he had been mistaken. This had been too much. Ten years were more than he could take. Ten years were too much for his weak mind, for his fragile soul.

"You're not weak, angel. You're – You're certainly the strongest being I have ever met. What they did to you, angel, that was cruel. That was torture. And you wanted to keep it all to yourself." Crowley was holding Aziraphale tightly, as tight as he could. His hands were stroking Aziraphale's back, sometimes gripping his clothes. He was crying and Aziraphale was too.

Crowley felt sick. He wanted to scream, to punch something until his knuckles broke, he wanted to burn Heaven down. He wanted to hear the pained wails of those angelic arseholes, watch the Hellfire lick their skin and bones, until they were nothing more than a pile of ashes. He wanted them to suffer like Aziraphale had suffered and he wanted them to die so that they could cause him no more pain. Crowley had rarely felt hatred as intensely as he did in that exact moment. But he didn't let it consume him. And so, he focused on the love he felt for Aziraphale, letting it radiate in waves of warmth to envelop the shivering body between his arms.

After some time, they ended in a tangle of limbs on the floor, still holding each other tightly. Crowley was still whispering in Aziraphale's ears, letting the words flow, letting them warm Aziraphale's heart as Crowley's hands warmed his body.

"I love you, angel. I won't let anything bad happen to you ever again. I won't let them hurt you."

Aziraphale hated the hint of guilt he heard in Crowley's voice. He hated that he hadn't been able to protect Crowley, to keep him happy. Aziraphale hated himself for not being strong enough, for making both of them miserable. Aziraphale was broken, he had been broken since the Beginning. He was a failure of an angel, but he had tried to be a good friend for Crowley, apparently, he wasn't very good at that either. He wasn't good at anything. He fully deserved his punishment. But Crowley didn't deserve to suffer because of him.

"I'm sorry. Crowley, I'm so sorry. I love you and I'm sorry." Aziraphale's voice was hoarse, it still sounded weird to his ears.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for, angel. Nothing, you hear me? You did nothing wrong," Crowley whispered, his voice fierce. There was anger in his tone, but none of it was directed toward the angel held safely in his arms.

Aziraphale sniffed, burying his face in Crowley's chest. "I wasn't strong enough. I deserved this and I wasn't strong enough to spare you the pain. I wasn't strong enough to protect you."

"You kept all this for yourself for so long angel. You're strong. But you don't need to be. It's alright, we can be strong together, you don't need to be strong on your own." Crowley kissed Aziraphale's hair, trying to convey all his affection in the simple gesture.

Crowley stood up, he carried Aziraphale upstairs to the bedroom. He had made sure the books stayed in good condition during the last decade. He slept in Aziraphale's bed more often than in his own.

Aziraphale didn't sleep. He didn't close his eyes. But Crowley felt him relax under his fingertips, he heard his breathing evening out, getting calmer and deeper. Aziraphale wasn't alright, but he was safe now.

In the morning, Crowley brought croissants and hot cocoa to Aziraphale. He was slightly reassured when the angel ate everything, even letting out quite sighs of delight. Aziraphale sought physical contact, he needed Crowley's soft touch, needed the feeling of the demon's fingertips on his scalp, of his lips on his forehead. And Crowley was happy to oblige. He had missed Aziraphale, too. His sugary smell of old paper and chocolate, his radiant smile that could light up a whole room, the sound of his voice, posh and kind. He had missed Aziraphale's softness.

In the afternoon, Aziraphale read. For a while, he did it quietly, but when Crowley brought a fluffy blanket and wrapped the both of them in it, Aziraphale started reading out loud. It felt calming, as if creating a reassuring cocoon, protecting them in their own little bubble. At first, Aziraphale's voice had been unsure, he tripped on long words, got distracted easily, had to re-read a few lines. But as time went on, he became more self-assured, his usual ease came back, his pleasure to read more obvious. He even smiled. A real, sincere smile that didn't contain a hint of sadness.

In the evening, they watched a movie on Crowley's laptop. It was a funny one, one of Crowley's favourite. Aziraphale laughed. It was the most glorious sound Crowley had ever heard, like pearls made of sound, falling from the angel's mouth. Crowley captured it with is lips, as carefully as he could. Aziraphale closed his eyes, sighing into the kiss, and Crowley felt something unwind in his shoulder. Aziraphale wasn't happy, it was too early for that, but in that moment, he felt joy. He hadn't felt that emotion in a whole decade. But he felt it now, and it was all that mattered. Crowley was by his side, making him feel loved and protected. Making him feel like he was the most precious thing in the universe. Crowley loved him and he loved Crowley. Love. Gabriel said that kind of love was his weakness, that it would lead him to damnation. Aziraphale thought it was the love he shared with Crowley that kept him alive. It was his strength.

Perhaps, Crowley was right. Perhaps Aziraphale wasn't weak, perhaps with Crowley's help he would be strong, stay strong, become stronger.

His time in the Room had been hell. But Aziraphale would do it again, he simply knew it. He would make all the same choices, and he would end up in the Room once more. He would. Because it was love that brought him there. It was because of love that he got punished. And it was love that saved him. His love for Earth and his love for Crowley. And Aziraphale would never give Crowley up, he'd rather be sentenced to centuries lost in the Room. he would face everything for Crowley, for a chance to be around him, to live with him, to love him.

Aziraphale didn't sleep, but he held Crowley tightly against his soft chest, running his fingers in the soft strands of red hair. He had missed Crowley. He inhaled deeply, taking in his musky scent of wet earth and burnt wood and leather. He loved Crowley, even his battered heart wasn't broken enough to forget that. Crowley shifted slightly, getting even closer to Aziraphale. And in that moment, Aziraphale knew Crowley had been right. He would be alright. He wasn't alright yet, maybe it would take years for him to feel alright. But one day, he would be alright.


End file.
